


Flesh

by startwithsparks



Series: MMOM 2013 [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blood, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Parent/Child Incest, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose Bolton knows everything that happens at the Dreadfort, even things that his bastard son would rather he didn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flesh

The servants had been in a state all afternoon and well into the evening, a fact that was not overlooked by the Lord of the Dreadfort. They were used to all manner of foul deeds happening within those walls, so when something seemed decidedly amiss, it was time for Lord Bolton to make inquiries. While the servants seemed tongue-tied regarding it at first, he could be as persuasive as anyone when it came to drawing information out of a source, no matter how unwilling they were to let loose of their tongues. He threatened nothing short of disembowelment before he finally got one of them to spit it out.

His bastard - though no one dared utter that word in his presence, it was always _the young Lord Bolton_ to Roose's face - it seemed, had gone hunting earlier in the day. That much hardly surprised him. His son was out with his dogs most every morning, back before the midday meal if not soon after. Roose liked to believe that the boy had some lordly qualities in him, that his fondness for his hounds and horses were a sign of good breeding, but Ramsay took the same care with his blades as he did with his beasts; they were all tools to him, albeit cherished tools. But he was swift to put the figures together after that and needed no more from the panic-stricken young man he'd managed to strain that little bit of information from. It was no doe his son brought back, but prey of a different kind. At least it would be one less mouth for the Dreadfort to feed come winter.

Lips pressed into a fine line, he swept down endless twisting stairways and through the dank, rat-infested tunnels until he reached the edge of the dungeons. A simple iron gate stood between him and the cavernous labyrinth of rooms that served as inquisition suites, cells, and sometimes even tombs. With a long-suffering sigh, he shoved open the gate and strode through. The sound of some poor wretch's whimpering was the first thing to greet him, but that miserable soul had been down here for so long that Roose barely paid him any mind at all. Instead, he ventured further down, to the end of the long, musty corridor, and the room he knew his son liked best.

He'd often considered how incredibly like him Ramsay was. There was something to be said for breeding, and though his mother played some part in the ruination of his stock, Roose had to hold himself somewhat responsible for the creature that Ramsay had become. A boy needed the attention of his father, even the ones who served little purpose other to remind their fathers of their former indiscretions. Even the noblest men had such reminders of things they'd rather not be reminded of. This was the way the gods repaid a man who forgot his duties and, as unfortunate as that was, it was a lesson learned.

Roose leaned against the open archway into the room, rusted hinges barely holding a wooden door to it. He couldn't say when the last time was that this door closed properly. It had been off its hinges when he was a boy and his own lord father dragged his foes pleading for mercy down to this very room. Arms folded, he watched with a bemused smirk twisted across his lips. His son sat in a chair with his back towards the door, what had once been a young woman - and now was very little more than a string of raw meat - hanging from her wrists by shackles. Ramsay had cleaned her swiftly, it seemed, and efficiently, but now he sat with his trousers and smallclothes bunched around his thighs, his arm moving in a way that any man would easily recognize. A sneer worked its way into the place where there had only just been a smirk, and he strode casually across the stone floor, his boots making only the barest whisper as he walked.

Ramsay must have sensed his presence, but he made no effort to cease his movements. It was clear that he considered this _his_ place now, and that it was unthinkable that his father might question anything he did in there. Roose made no effort to chastise him for it, yet, but merely curled his spidery fingers over the back of the chair is son sat in and loomed over his shoulders. His hands were caked in blood halfway up to his elbows, and his cock was in much the same state.

"You could have done that before you killed her," he murmured against Ramsay's ear; the boy didn't flinch. "It's a pity to waste warm flesh."

From the corner of his eye he saw Ramsay's plump lips twist into a sadistic grin, "She didn't have flesh any longer when she died," he snorted, "and it was Reek who liked them after they were dead."

He sneered, "More like your _pet_ couldn't even get an unwilling woman to touch him lest she had already expired."

Ramsay leaned back in his chair, shoulders pressing against his father's hands. With a disparaging sigh, Roose pulled his hands free and placed them firmly on his son's shoulders instead. Ramsay cocked his head gently to the side; all the while he never so much as faltered in his strokes. "You may be right about that."

"Who does she belong to?" He asked, still inspecting the work laid out in front of him - both the girl and the boy.

He shrugged, "Some farmer most likely, what does it matter?"

Roose's grip tightened ever so slightly, thumbs digging into the back of his son's shoulders and rolling upwards until Ramsay finally flinched under his touch, "Try again," he grimaced.

Scowling, Ramsay finally stilled his movements to tip his head back and stare up at his father. "You," he said bitterly, "all things at the Dreadfort belong to _you_ , father."

He leaned in, loosening one hand enough to slide it around the front of his son's throat. Ramsay's hand hesitated for a brief moment, but eventually slipped down to wrap around himself again as Roose steadily tightened his grip. " _All_ things in the Dreadfort belong to me," he repeated, staring down at the boy. "Remember that next time you loose your dogs so close to home. You've not yet come into your right to claim what still remains in my possession."


End file.
